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Tropical Touches 



Tropical Touches 

(Songs from South America) 



By 

Randolph Henry Atkin 

Author of 

'Ballads of a Gringo", " Rio Grande" 

and other Poems 



PUBLISHER 

H. WILSON HOYT 

736 WEST 181st STREET 
NEW YORK 

U. S. A. 



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Copyright 1916 
By Randolph H. Atki 



All rights reserved 



SEP I! !9!6 

'CI,A4383y4 



To my Gringo Friends 
in South America 



I've tried to write of matters 

which I've pondered, 
Of stories I've heard told — 

of men I've met. 
Of distant lands, where oft 

I've lonely wandered 
And scenes which I've beheld, 

ne'er to forget. 
I've tried to tell of living 

as I've knov/n it, 
Nor do my rhymes abound 

in polished speech. 
Yet, for all gringos, though 

they may not own it. 
Past mem'ries they'll recall , . 

a lesson teach. 
And should you o'er one word 

of mine detain 
Then has this work of love 
been not in vain. 



CONTENTS. 

Adios ... Mi Amor - - - - 41 

Advice ------ 47 

Bum, The ------ 78 

Coast, The ----- 44 

Call of the South, The - - . - 71 

Exiled Gringo, The . - - - 108 

Gringo, The - _ - _ _ - 27 

Gringo's Lament, The - - - - 99 

Gringo's Homecoming, The _ _ - 116 

Have You? 53 

My Ideal 65 

My Cubanita ----- 74 

Memories ------ HI 



CONTENTS— Continuad 

Outcast, The _ _ - - ~ 58 

Prickly Heat - - - - - 61 

Panama - _ _ _ _ - 61 

Pet, The ------ 105 

Revenge, The ----- 31 

South of Panama ----- 11 

Southern Typhoon, The _ - - 15 

Southland, The ----- 96 

Selections from Ballads of a Gringo - - 125 

Valparaiso Bay ----- 89 

Wanderer's Day, The - - - - 50 

Woman 102 



SOUTH OF PANAMA. 



Do you know those infant nations lying soutb 
of Panama, 
That dreary Coast of stretching scrub and sand, 
Have you felt their lure upon you, breathed the 
fever-ladened air, 
Have you heard them call and tried to under- 
stand? 
Have you gripped the hand they proflfer, do you 
know the life they offer? 
Tis one in which with death you ever spar, 
The blazing heat that blinds you, the something 
that binds you 
To those small republics south of Panama. 



11 



SOUTH OF PANAMA. 

Do you know those yellow pampas undulating 
to the skyline, 
Where the king of desolation reigns supreme, 
Have you heard the vultures croaking as you 
staggered forward choking, 
And watched with bloodshot eyes the mirage 
gleam? 
Have you fell to madly raving, chewed your belt 
to ease your craving. 
As you clear recalled that rippling brook afar. 
And, though now you're back in clover, long 
again to wander over 
Those sun-baked countries south of Panama? 

Do you know those dusty cities with their nar- 
row crooked calles^ 
Adobe houses dim as prison cells. 
Those open market places thronged with black 
perspiring faces, 
The rotting fruit and reeking garlic smells? 
Have you heard the hurrd" wailing, loud the 
tropic morn assailing. 
And clanging bells which on the senses jar, 
Then known that hour redeeming, when at noon- 
day all are dreaming 
In those sunbathed countries south of Panama. 



1 Street 
* Donkey 



12 



SOUTH OF PANAMA. 

Do you know their lovely daughters, those 
stately senoritas, 
Who with a perfect grace go gliding past, 
And give you glances fleeting 'till your pulses 
fast are beating, 
And at such beauty rare you stand aghast? 
Have you heard that rippling laughter? Seen 
beneath a fringed mantilla 
Two flashing eyes which pale the brightest 
star? 
Do you feel a lover's yearning, do your thoughts 
keep oft returning 
To those sunkissed countries south of Panama? 

Have you seen those tropic 'evens when the 
heated earth's aglowing 
And clouds are lined with tints of ev'ry hue? 
When the sun, its blood pulsating, lingers not 
o'er its leavetaking. 
But soon 'neath old Pacific drops from view. 
Then the luna, newly risen, palefaced, from her 
daily prison, 
Looks down from ofif the tow'ring peaks afar. 
And brings some relaxation to the gasping popu- 
lation, 
Of those sun-scorched countries south of 
Panama. 



13 



SOUTH OF PANAMA. 

Have you known those nights of splendour when 
ten thousand stars are sparkHng 
Like fireflies in the blackness overhead, 
Watched the wavelets inland creeping, and the 
flames of phosphor leaping 
Where th' changeful sea with steadfast shore 
is wed? 
Have you . . . turned to silent wonder . . . seen 
the Southern Cross appearing 
A pendant bright beyond the harbour bar? 
And, through dangers dire to steer you, some- 
how felt that God was near you 
In those sunsteeped countries south of Panama. 

I have roamed their rugged seaboards, ridden 
o'er their barren pampas, 
I have trod their city byeways, drenched in 
sweat, 
To the puma's scream I've wakened, by their 
deadly fevers shakened, 
To each of their demands I've paid my debt. 
But though Fortune's tide has borne me from 
that land of stern adventure 
To a country where the joys of comfort are. 
And where life is of the choicest . . . yet I hear 
the luring voices. 
Of those distant countries south of Panama. 



14 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 



Born in the depths of darkness, in the long Ant- 
arctic night, 
Reared in the mighty cradle of a vastness vir- 
gin white, 
Piercing the clouds that bound me at the dawn 
of a long sought day, 
Sallying forth with pent up wrath to speed on 
my frenzied way. 



15 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

Driving the snows before me over the barren 
plain, 
Heaving them high to the glov^ering sky to be 
dashed to the earth again, 
Stifling the lone explorer with a blast of my chilly 
breath, 
Hurling the ice-bound whaler to the jaws of a 
waiting death. 

Faster and ever faster 'till the towering moun- 
tains quake, 
Stronger and ever stronger 'till the rising 
plateaux shake. 
Nothing but desolation as far as the eye can see, 
With a deaf'ning roar I leave the shore to 
spread o'er the cringing sea. 



16 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

Lashing its breast in my fury 'till it shrinks from 
my tireless hand, 
And runs for the rugged shelter of the far-off 
watching land, 
Flies like a timid maiden from the grip of a 
fancied ghost. 
To tear itself asunder on the stern unyielding 
coast. 

With a joyous cry I soon espy, away on the sky- 
line dim. 
The graceful form of a speeding barque . . . 
toy for my present whim. 
Hearing my shout triumphant, inspired by the 
proffered sport, 
She swiftly turns, as a startled deer, and makes 
for the nearest port. 



17 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

One rush and I overtake her, she shrinks with a 
dull alarm, 
Then heels as I dash her from me with a sweep 
of my mighty arm, 
Again, and I clutch her to me, I can hear her 
long-drawn gasp. 
And her strong ribs loudly crunching 'neath 
the power of my iron grasp. 

Those puny human mortals, who Nature's anger 
brave, 
Now cry to their God to snatch them from the 
brink of a wat'ry grave, 
But I rip the decks asunder with a final shatt'ring 
blow, 
And they sink with the ship they trusted to 
the claws of the crabs below. 



18 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

Onward I speed 'till the Andes rear up each hoary 
head, 
Clear to that space unending where only the 
angels tread, 
From the crest of their glitt'ring snowfields a 
challenge to all is hurled, 
For never have they been conquered, those 
Kings of the Western World. 

Dashing myself against them I tear at their ram- 
parts old, 
They answer my youthful howlings with the 
calm of an age untold, 
Stemmed are my furious onslaughts by the 
strength of their bosoms vast, 
On those snowbound plains, where the condor 
reigns, I meet with defeat at last. 



19 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

Thrown from that rocky stronghold I drop to the 
earth below, 
To skim o'er the green clad valleys where 
westbound rivers flow, 
Gone is the lust for battle, the strength of my 
youth is spent 
Till scarcely the supple bambu by the force 
of my blow is bent. 

I suck the dew from the pastures new, on my 
lips it is borne away, 
To kiss the flower at the noonday hour, as 
it droops 'neath the glare of day, 
To stir the leaves of the listless trees till they 
nod to the setting sun, 
And bring relief to the gasping earth 'ere the 
reign of the moon's begun. 



20 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

On through the night I travel, over the moonlit 
land, 
Crossing the silent pampa, ruffiing its glist'ning 
sand, 
Stirring the lonely campfire till I see by its ruddy 
glow 
Fresh hope arise in the lost one's eyes as he 
harks to my whimperings low. 

For a moment brief he sits and stares . . . out 
through the rising smoke, 
His thirst's forgot and he listens not to the 
waiting vultures' croak. 
For he sees again a dew-drenched plain, and 
hears the swishing mill. 
And his haggard face for the briefest space, 
with joy those visions fill. 



S21 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

But 'ere the breath of another wind can soothe 
his fevered head, 
His spirit bold will seek the fold of the count- 
less unknown dead, 
While, served by him, the vultures grim their 
proffered feast will gain 
And his bones will lie 'neath a blazing sky, a 
speck on the stretching plain. 

Over the festooned jungle I speed on my north- 
ern way. 
Waking the chatt'ring monkey as the roof of 
his home I sway, 
Rousing the shrieking puma to be joined by a 
thousand more, 
Then all is stilled as the air is filled with a 
hungry tiger's roar. 



22 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

Quickly the dawn of a tropic morn breaks in the 
garnished East, 
Hid from the glare in his fetid lair slumbers 
the prowling beast, 
The note is heard of an early bird, the deep green 
foliage shakes, 
With the rustling sound of a mighty bound the 
trembling jungle wakes. 

Upwards, now mounting upwards till I see from 
a mountain crest. 
The first bright ray of the piping day bathing 
Caribbean's breast. 
The morning star, in its realm afar, melts in the 
burning light. 
And the yawning West, as it springs from rest, 
swallows the conquered night. 



23 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

Then the fairy touch of a gentle breeze ripples 
the placid sea, 
And the cadent trill of a gladsome song floats 
through the air to me, 
At that welcome sound, with a fleeting bound, 
from the mountain top I glide, 
For over the sand of that circling strand frolics 
my northern bride. 

One fond embrace, then off we race, out from the 
tranquil bay. 
Which brightly gleams as the amber beams 
over its bosom play 
Back one more to the fretful shore we come from 
our joyous flight. 
To sing a tune to the locked lagoon, ablaze in 
the shimmering light. 



24 



THE SOUTHERN TYPHOON. 

But my heart's on fire with a great desire, and I 
long of that fruit to taste, 
Which ripens best in the perfumed breast, 
snow-white of a maiden chaste. 
I long to fly from the watching eye, far up from 
the land and sea, 
Till hid from view by that veil of blue, through 
which Death alone can see. 

So I take my bride in my eager arms, she yields 
with a trembling sigh, 
To the hills and plains of the smiling earth I 
whisper a last Goodbye, 
Then up I soar through a mighty door, which 
opes in the clouds above, 
To a bridal home in the sapphire dome, alone 
with my virgin love. 



25 



THE GRINGO. 



You'll encounter a type in your wanderings far, 

From storm-swept Magellan to old Panama, 
His hide is like leather, his soul black as tar. 

And in Spanish they call him a gringo. 

He's grim of the face, yet he's soft of the heart. 
From the store of adventure full claiming his 
part. 
There isn't a speck on the southern chart 
Untrod by the foot of a gringo. 

His morals are not what you'd find in a saint. 
His knowledge of Scripture's decidedly faint, 
But of fear and of lying he bears not a taint, 

And he'll stick to his friends, will the 
gringo. 



27 



THE GRINGO. 

He's fond of the ladies — got sweethearts galore, 

By difference in color he places no store, 

But never forgets 'twas a woman who bore. 

That man now matured to a gringo. 

Being thick of the skin you may poison the air, 
And call him a son of — whate'er you may care, 
But smile when you say it, or if not — beware! 
He reckons life cheap does the gringo. 

His manners are rough, he's a beggar to drink. 
And down to the depths of the wretched may 
sink. 
But, from one act of meanness to others he'd 
shrink, 

He's true to the core is the gringo. 



28 



THE GRINGO. 

High up on the peaks where the earth stretches 
white, 
Far down on the plains, where the sweat bHnds 
your sight, 
Wherever mankind with stern Nature must fight. 
You'll find the opponent a gringo. 

When the darkest of jungles is cleared from the 
ground. 
And the highest of mountains eventually 
crowned, 
'Neath the oozing black slime, or the snows will 
be found 

The bones of a wandering gringo. 

He carries his flag to the ends of the earth, 

He's building up fame for the land of his birth. 
So those who sit snugly at home by the hearth. 
Just take off your hats to the gringo ! 



29 



THE REVENGE. 



'Twas told to me by the camp firelight, 

Where the ruddy glow is shed, 
In that silent hour of the tropic night, 

E'er the blackness fades overhead, 
And the szveltering dawn, zvith a gaping yazvn, 

Springs up from its jungle bed. 



There are towns I've known, from the Frozen 

Zone to the rims where the palm trees wave 
Some as gay as the Great White Way, or sad as 

a pauper's grave. 
From Behring Sound, where the palefaced ground 

Hes tight in the frost-fiend's hold. 
To Chili's strand, where the burning sand, rolls 

back like a sea of gold. 
But the strangest spot that it's been my lot to 

strike in my wanderings far, 
Is one which lies 'neath southern skies . . . that 

wide-famed Panama. 



31 



THE REVENGE. 

'Twas back in the days when the worldly gaze 

was fixed on that distant place, 
Men drifted there from God knows where, each 

of a different race. 
White and black, yellow and brown, Gentile, 

Hindu, Jew. 
Cast aside by the human tide ... a jostling, 

motley crew. 
Men of worth, of grit and birth, honest and brave 

and free. 
Mixed with the scum of the sodden slum . . . 

fruit for the gallows tree. 

Then, after the men, in a mighty drove, flocking 

the women came. 
To share the fate of their chosen mate, or follow 

the road of shame. 
Labour was dear and life was cheap, parched by 

the fever's breath. 
Men staked their all on the dice's fall, and 

laughed at the call of death. 
'Twas there 'neath the blaze of a blistering sun, 

each gringo raised a thirst, 
And, gone the day, in a joint cafe gambled and 

drank and cursed. 



32 



THE REVENGE. 

The only law that we ever knew was that of the 

gun and knife. 
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, the ancient 

rules of life. 
A smashing blow or a flash of steel as the insult 

deeply stung, 
No man had time, in that deadly clime, for a long 

warfare of tongue. 
No issues left to the phrasing deft of a claptrap 

in your pay. 
But honour won and justice done in a swift, sure, 

manly way. 

From out of that seeting flotsam there, rose in 

his giant might 
A leader strong, despising wrong, defender of 

the right. 
Shoulders broad and tall of limb, lithe as a puma 

wild, 
Clear of mind, a will of steel, and the heart of a 

simple child. 
His joy and pride was a tender bride, famed for 

her beauty rare, 
Whose body frail, from life's fierce gale, he 

screened with a wondrous care. 



33 



THE REVENGE. 

Now silent Dick was the name he bore, for timid 

was he of speech, 
But his deeds did show what he'd have you 

know, his Hfe what he wished to teach. 
The bully cringed and the braggart ceased if he 

hap'd to be passing by. 
As his voiced v/as heard the shirker stirred, and 

the liar ate his lie. 
Yet the 'down-and-outs' would to him relate sad 

tales of their black disgrace, 
And he'd help them climb from the oozing slime 

to a place in the worldly race. 



We were seated one night in the lampglare 

bright of an uptown cabaret. 
Where the gringos came with their throats 

aflame at the end of the swelt'ring day. 
Maisie, the one of the painted face, was singing 

a ragtime song. 
While the thirsty crew, as they mellowed up, 

were shouting the chorus strong. 
When into the light, from the blackened night, 

out of the swishing rain, 
Staggering wild, came Silent Dick . . . with the 

air of a man insane. 



34 



THE REVENGE. 

Have you watched the eyes of a ravmg fool as 

he sits in his padded room? 
The blanching cheek of a man condemned as the 

stern judge seals his doom? 
The quivering lips on that last lone night as he 

sits in his prison cell, 
The anguished look of a strong-willed man, 

suffering the pangs of hell ? 
That was the face of Silent Dick . . . fell a 

silence deep as death, 
Not a reveller stirred, whilst we clearly heard 

the hiss of each indrawn breath. 

Then the silence broke, for up Dick spoke . . . 
his voice bore the mournful knell. 

Of a spirit cast from the sunlit vast to the dark- 
est pit of hell. 

Of one who wakes from a blissful dream to find 
his illusions flown. 

Drifting apart, with an aching heart . . . facing 
the world alone. 

Of one, who falls from the peak of fame, to sink 
in the filth and mud. 

Robbed of all that he cherished most — home, and 
the girl he loved. 



35 



THE REVENGE. 

For among the list of those 'down-and-outs' was 

one of a swinish breed, 
Whom Dick did raise from misery's ways in the 

direst hour of need, 
Polished of speech, with a tongue of silk, fair as 

an ancient Greek, 
One of a kind you oft' will find, spoiler of women 

weak. 
Slimiest snake of a poisonous brood, seeking that 

built bower, 
To gain lust's end, betrayed his friend, in a short 

unguarded hour. 

* ^H * * * 

The jungle dense lay deathly tense in the grip 

of the noonday glare. 
The prowling brute, tired of pursuit, snored loud 

in its fetid lair. 
From rolling plain to the jagged peak, where the 

condor reigns supreme, 
Through th' swelt'ring day all Nature lay in a 

long unbroken dream. 
When out of the shade, by the forest made, 

where lingers twilight's veil. 
Stumbled a weary, trail-stained pair, — a man and 

a woman frail. 



36 



THE REVENGE. 

They glanced around as a threat'ning sound came 

out from the thicket gloom, 
(Into their eyes did the look arise of those who 

await their doom) 
The tangled shrub w^as brushed aside, and into 

the sunlit space, 
Staggered a wild-eyed, bush-torn man, haggard 

and scarred of face. 
A moment's pause — then the jungle hush with 

the yell of a madman rang. 
And, swift as a beast to the bloody feast, at the 

woman's throat he sprang, 

His calloused hands like wrought steel bands 

around her neck did close, 
A strangled cry, with terror filled, from her 

blanched lips arose ; 
One snake-like twist of his gnarled wrist . . . 

a woman's piercing shriek, 
And, paid sin's toll, her tainted soul the realms of 

the dead did seek. 
Then, as a beast which is roused to slay, he 

turned with an angry roar. 
And soon with ease, down to his knees, the 

Avoman's lover bore. 



37 



THE REVENGE. 

Drawing a rope from beneath his coat the strug- 

ghng man he bound, 
Laughing aloud, as his rival cowed, whined like 

a beaten hound. 
Then, dragging him back to the nearby spot, 

w^here the corpse of the woman lay. 
He lashed him close, with a hempen cord, to the 

breast of the lifeless clay. 
Scorning the cries of the wretched man, roped 

to the staring dead, 
With a fiendish laugh at his hellish work, into the 

bush he fled. 

3^ i^ ^ ^ St* 

A year ago, as I chance to know, a wandering 
gringo foimd. 

Somewhere back on a lonely track, where soli- 
tudes abound, 

A mouldering heap of bleached remains, and plain 
to his startled gaze. 

Circling the bones w^as a hempen cord, rotting 
away with age. 

But every trace of their sex or state had fast, 
long since decayed. 

Whilst, in and out of the grinning skulls, the 
green backed lizards played. 



38 



THE REVENGE. 

And, crouched that night by his camp firelight, 
where shadows come and go, 

And faces dear so oft appear in the heart of the 
ruddy glow, 

He plainly heard, (and I take his word) a wom- 
an's piercing cry, 

A struggle keen . . . then the pleading tones of 
a man wdio is doomed to die, 

A taunting laugh ... a stillness strange . . . 
a long blood-curdling yell, 

Then — silence deep, like a world asleep, on the 
shuddering jungle fell. 



39 



ADIOS ... MI AMOR. 



The last lone ray of the swelt'ring day 

Retires from the gasping land, 
The paintings rare in the clouds above, 

Are veiled by a stealthy hand. 
From over the sea the dipping sun, 

Smiles back to the weeping shore. 
Then sinks from view with a last adieu : 
Adios . . . adios ... mi amor ! 

'Tis then I sit by that 'circling beach, 

Alone with those mem'ries old, 
Where the fleeting love which you felt for me, 

On that fateful eve was told. 
I h'ear again with returning pain, 

Those words which you spoke of yore. 
That trembling sigh, and that last good-bye, 
Adios . . . adios ... mi amor! 



41 



ADIOS ... MI AMOR. 

On ... on I dream till a snow-white beam 
Shines down through the gathering night, 

And the still lagoon, by the nascent moon. 
Is bathed with a silver light. 

Then it seems to me that the restless sea, 
As it shrinks from the weeping shore. 

Is whisp'ring low, in a voice I know 

Adios . . . adios ... mi amor ! 

Yet the setting sun will appear again 

To smile on the joyful land, 
And the ebbing sea will return to kiss 

The face of the virgin sand. 
But my Ideal, like the trampled flow'r. 

Will rise from the dust no more. 
The past is dead ... all hope has fled . . . 
Adios . . . adios ... mi amor ! 

As the lonely tree on the barren plain 

But heightens the dreariness. 
And the passing bird o'er the ocean's breast 

But deepens the loneliness ; 
So the mem'ry clear of our love-dream, dear, 

Adds to Disillusion's store. 
Ah ! to forget that we ever met ! 

Adios . . . adios ... mi amor ! 



42 



ADIOS ... MI AMOR. 

Soon fleeting years with ruthless hands 
Will turn these hairs to white, 

Life's dreary day will pass away, 
And swift will fall the night ; 

Till, bending low, with falt'ring steps 
I'll enter Death's dark door, 

And, sorrow past, find Truth at last : 

Adios . . . adios ... mi amor! 



43 



THE COAST. 



Stretching due south the Equator 
Swept by a mountainous swell, 

Mixture of pampa and jungle, 

Where gringos and centipedes dwell. 

Cursed by all manner of fevers, 
Hotter and dried than Hell 
Is the Coast. 

Seaports where life is a burden 
Menaced by typhoid and stinks, 

Home of the Mown-and-the-outer', 
Of bleary beach-combers and 'ginks'. 

Where the only diversions for gringos 
Are loving, and gambling and drinks 
On the Coast. 



44 



THE COAST. 

Streets that are narrow and winding, 
Filled with a garlicky smell, 

Houses of 'dobe and mortar, 
Windows barred up like a cell. 

Eyes which are flashing behind them. 
Helping to strengthen the spell 
Of the Coast. 

Days when the mercury rises 
To ninety and nine in the shade, 

Ev'nings when landscape and ocean, 
In crimson and gold are arrayed. 

Nights when the heavenly ceiling 
With glittering Stardust's inlaid 
On the Coast. 

Deserts which stretch to the skyline. 
Where glimmering mirages glow. 

Mountains which rise to the vastness 
Crowned with a halo of snow, 

Rivers abounding in reptiles, 
Meandering sluggish and slow 
To the Coast. 



45 



THE COAST. 

Mosquitos that threaten to eat you, 

Flies which you slay with delight, 
Sandcrabs which come out to greet you, 

Dogs that attack you on sight, 
Burros that wake you at dawning. 

Fleas which disturb you at night 
On the Coast. 

Paths that are rearing like stairways 

Up to God's heavenly gates, 
Or winding through death-laden jungles, 

To haunts where the rattler awaits, 
O'er pampa and prairie, where exiles 

Are sharing the direst of fates 
On the Coast. 

Only a year since I left it 

When deeply and grimly I swore 
That never again would I venture 

To live on that sweltering shore, 
But somehow there's something that calls me^ 

So back I am going once more 
To the Coast. 



46 



ADVICE. 



'Tis a cold hard world as you've all found out, 
You stand on your feet to be knocked about, 
And get darn all if you start to shout, 

But the jeers of the jostling throng. 
Yet there are times in this ruthless fight, 
(Though most of us think that Might is Right) 
When the bitterest man finds some delight 

In helping another along. 

There are different ways of helping one, 
There's the rich, who think it's the greatest fun, 
And visit the poor of a sodden slum 

In a stylish motor car, 
Who head the list of a charity ball. 
And from the housetops loudly call. 
That the wondrous fact may be known by all 

What generous folk they are. 



47 



ADVICE. 

Yet I wouldn't give two hurrahs in hell 
For those who must of their helping tell, 
Who on the acts of their kindness dwell 

Expecting a neighbour's praise. 
But give me the one who will share his crust 
With a fellow-man who is badly 'bust/ 
And from the slime and the choking dust 

His fallen brother raise. 

And not a whisper of what he's done, 
Trying the thanks of the world to shun, 
Treating it all as a game he's won 

Where his partner shares the gain. 
That is a man whom you'd call a friend, 
Who'd stick by you to the bitter end. 
The Wrong oppose and the Right defend, 

The cause of the weak maintain. 

Now women there are (and I've known a lot) 
Who judge man's worth by the purse he's got, 
But, down and out, he is soon forgot 

And placed in the 'has been' fold. 
Give me the girl whose heart is true. 
Whose side you seek when things turn blue. 
And, come what may, sticks fast by you. 

She's worth her weight in gold. 



48 



ADVICE. 

A worthy prize in the game of life, 
A jewel rare where shams are rife, 
The kind, my boy, to be one's wife. 

To mother a future home. 
The others are pastes of the cheapest make, 
They sparkle awhile, yet prove a fake. 
With hearts as cold as a falling flake. 

The good wine's tasteless foam. 

Never you judge by outward show, 
The rarest flowers well sheltered grow. 
So look for the beauty that's hid below, 

The mind of a woman scan. 
Don't place a man by his wealth or birth. 
But value each as each one is worth. 
Remember the noblest thing on earth 

Is an upright, clean-cut man ! 



49 



A WANDERER'S DAY. 



I wake at dawn and stir the dying embers, 
To cook the contents of my old canteen, 
Rough, hardened fare — how keenly one remem- 
bers, 
Those bye-gone days, and thinks what might 
have been* 
Recalling scenes where shady pathways winded, 
Of meadows green where rippling brooklets 
run. 
And — here I am, by perspiration blinded, 
Plodding along beneath a blistering sun. 

A mid-day halt, in thicket gloom reposing 

Where sunbeams chase each other to and fro. 
Contented, musing half, and half adozing, 

I listen to the bellbird chiming low. 
Then falls a silence, stagnant and oppressive. 

When nothing stirs, from plain to distant peak, 
A stillness strange, as coming death impressive. 

Until it seems that God must surely speak. 

50 



A WANDERER'S DAY. 

I watch the sun go down in wondrous splendour, 

As cooHng winds disperse the swelt'ring heat, 
And then the moon appears, so soft and tender, 

A crescent pale, beneath Madonna's feet 
The clustering stars from daydreams now 

awaken 

To gleam in teeming millions overhead, 
Whilst down below the forest depths are shaken 

By prowling beasts, which fill the night with 
dread. 

By jungle track, where stealthy forms are creep- 
ing, 

When cold the air of tropic night has grown, 
I build my fire, whilst all the world's asleeping, 

And crouch beside it, weary and alone. 
The curling smoke, up to the n?ght ascending. 

Shapes, to my gaze, a form divinely fair. 
Then, flippant ever, with the darkness blending. 

Leaves me to wakened sorrow and despair. 



m 



A WANDERER'S DAY. 

A wanderer's day, far from the city faring, 

Far from the haunts of luxury and ease. 
Toiling beneath a sun forever glaring. 

Meeting alone dire dangers and disease. 
No thought of gain, no bid for admiration, 

As those who strive the heights of fame to 
scale. 
Only a fight 'gainst sickness, thirst, starvation, 

Only a grave beside a lonely trail. 



52 



HAVE YOU? 



Have you ridd'n cross a pampa, knowing nought 
of limitations, 
Alone with Nature in its wildest state, 
And the silence was so awful you could hear the 
earth's pulsations. 
And your soul, unfettered, calling to its mate? 
Have you stood upon a montain, when the land 
and sea around you 
Seemed bounded only by Eternity, 
Letting nought of care enslave you . . . living 
on what Nature gave you? 
If you have . . . then you may speak of Liberty. 



53 



HAVE YOU? 

Have you mushed across a snowfield where the 
Arctic blizzard pounds you, 
All silent save the north v^ind shrieking o'er, 
Or broke trail in the Tropics, v^here the jungle 
dense surrounds you, 
And you're woke from slumbers by the tiger's 
roar? 
Have you shared your rice and pollo^ v^ith a 
save Indian chold" 
Yet feasted with the aristocracy. 
Brought deep passion's glow to faces . . . daugh- 
ters fair of difT'rent races? 
If you have . . . then you have tasted Life 
with me. 

Have you fought a fight unaided ... a war with 
fever waging. 
When comrades died like flies 'fore winter's 
blast, 
Or tossed upon the ocean 'neath a southern 
typhoon raging, 
And though each shuddering plunge to be the 
last? 
Have you felt your bowels sicken, and your 
parched throat quickly thicken. 
When sand stretched out as far as eye could 
see. 
Have you cursed a maddened cheater . . . famed 
as quick with his repeater? 
If you have . . . then you have courted Death 
with me. 

^ Chicken 

2 Indian of the mountains 

54 



HAVE YOU? 

Have you known a girl you cared for, fully 
trusted, wholly revered, 
The knowledge of whose virtues made you 
glad, 
Then had your ideals shattered, your illusions 
widely scattered 
By the action of a low down selfish cad? 
Have you spent your days in scheming, and your 
nights in fondly dreaming 
Of a future based on true fidelity. 
Then seen your mind's creation sink to depths of 
degradation? 
If you have . . . then you have shared a grief 
with me. 

Have you started madly drinking to prevent 
yourself from thinking 
And never for a year drawn sober breath, 
Quickly drifting on the ebb-tide with the scum of 
ev'ry nation 
To the borders of a low degraded death? 
Have you sunk past all forgiving . . . 'till you 
stooped to earn your living 
As 'bully' in a den of infamy. 
With mem'ries old to haunt you . . . ambitions 
lost to taunt you? 
If you have . . . then you have passed through 
hell with me. 

55 



HAVE YOU? 

Have you sat beside your camp-fire, list'ning to a 
puma crying, 
Through the blackness of a startled tropic 
night. 
And pictured scenes familiar in the embers 
quickly dying, 
Which brought betraying dimness to your 
sight? 
Have you rolled up in your blanket, sorely aching 
cold and hungry, 
With naught betwixt your couch and heaven's 
dome, 
Have you lain for months unending, sick, with 
strangers to you tending? 
If you have . . . then you have learnt to value 
Home. 

Have you had your little homestead nestling in 
a fertile valley. 
Where the winds of frenzied Nature never 
blow, 
And seen the sated cattle come lowing to the 
barnyard 
Through the meadows where the orange blos- 
soms grow? 
Have you heard the bellbird chiming, and 
watched bright Saturn climbing 
O'er the distant palms when sweltering day 
has flown, 

56 



HAVE YOU? 

Then thought with fervent pity of tired dwellers 
in the city? 
If you have . . . then sweet contentment you 
have known. 

Have you stood beneath a mango, while the early 
breezes straying, 
Sang to the rising sun a welcoming tune, 
Or watched the flittering fireflies 'neath the 
spreading branches playing. 
And heard the puma heralding the moon? 
Have you lived with your cholita in a rudely 
built casita'^ 
The walls of bambu and the floor of mud, 
And, though now you own a mansion, still you 
crave for more expansion. 
Then the Tropic Lure has entered in your 
blood. 



3 Indian girl 
*Hut 



57 



THE OUTCAST. 



Only a city Outcast, 

One of the world's forlorn. 
Subject for men's diversion, 

Object of women's scorn. 
One of the recent fallen. 

Limp in the strongholds of vice, 
Deep in the mire ... a creature for hire, 

Offered to all at a price. 

Sport for the brute and the drunkard, 

Slave of exploiters of sin. 
Outwardly gay . . . unrepentent. 

Numbed by the mis'ry within. 
Warmed by the glow of the moment, 

Chilled by the fate of her kind, 
Youthfulness flown . . . forsaken . . . alone. 

Shrivelled in body and mind. 



58 



THE OUTCAST. 

Yet there's the joy of a mother 

Mixed with her anguish and cares, 
Tight to her sin ladened bosom 

One of her sinew she bears. 
A wond'ring-eyed, innocent infant, 

Heir to a birthright of shame. 
Yet, by God it was sent ; if you choose to dissent. 

Then tell me from whither it came ! 

She knows the love of a mother, 

Child, though it is, of disgrace ; 
Yea ! and the look of Madonna 

Gleams through the rouge on her face. 
Yet, she is only an outcast, 

Doomed in her mis'ry to dwell. 
I fervently trust that God will be just, 

And send her betrayers to hell ! 

Always the sin of a woman 

Follows her whither she goes ; 
Man can efface his wrongdoings 

With the ease of a changing of clothes, 
Then seek, as his due, for a virgin 

His home of the future to share. 
Whilst his love of the past in the gutter is cast. 

Unheeded her shriek of despair. 



59 



THE OUTCAST. 

Listen! fond mothers and sweethearts, 
Harken ! ye wives who are true, 
Those, whom you look to for guidance. 

Those, who seem stainless to you, 
Have drunk of the money-bought nectar. 

Have sated themselves to the eyes ; 
Yes : their wild oats they've sown, and the har- 
vest that's grown. 

Are those outcasts you fiercely despise. 



60 



PRICKLY HEAT. 



Down Southern on the swelt'ring Tropic Zone, 
Where day and night one's body steeped in 
sweat, 
There's a torture to which gringoes all are 
prone, 
And, having it, the others they forget. 

'Tis neither vile Bubonic, 
Yellow Fever, nor the Vomit 

It's got those dread diseases fairly beat, 
For the torture past comparing 
To which now I am referring, 

Is what we gringoes call the Prickly Heat. 



61 



PRICKLY HEAT. 

It begins with ruddy pimples — just a few, 
But rapidly it spreads and forms a patch, 

While its lightning growth amazes, it is hurting 
you like blazes, 
And it's' always in a place you cannot scratch. 

'Neath the tropic sunglare burning. 
Through the dark night restless turning, 

You claw your body o'er from head to feet. 
Tortures vile, of man's creation. 
Rack and gibbet, thirst, starvation, 

Are nothing when compared with Prickly 
Heat. 



62 



PRICKLY HEAT. 

And a victim can be seen at every turn, 

You w^ill know him by the twitchings of his 
face, 
Meeting one of self-same feather, they will sit 
for hours together, 
And scratch with fiendish glee the other's 
place. 

It has no respect of person, 
But alights on Nature's cov'ring. 

Be he millionaire, or beggar in the street. 
Rich and poor alike are twitching. 
With the tantalizing itching. 

Of that peace-destroying curse — the Prickly 
Heat. 



63 



PRICKLY HEAT. 

When we gringoes on our last long journey go, 
And bid farewell to this ungodly Coast, 

Our dusky host, who runs the torture show, 
Won't put us on a blazing fire to roast. 

Such a false hope may be scooted 
For old Nick will do his duty. 
And choose the punishment our sins to meet. 
So we all will be presented, 
Till each one has sore relented. 
With a rattling, rousing dose of Prickly 
Heat. 



64 



MY IDEAL. 



'Tis in my dreams I see my ideal's face, 

Yet, when I wake, it fades quick into space, 

When all alone her voice my ear doth greet, 

Whispering to me, in accents low and sweet. 

I see her in the firelight's ruddy glare. 

Her form the flitt'ring shadows — the glow her 

hair, 
And when the light grows dim she draweth nigh. 
Until it seems to me I hear her sigh. 
Then faint I feel her warm breath fan my cheek, 
I wait with beating heart to hear her speak. 
From out the gloom comes that sweet voice so 

dear, 
Bidding me be patient, bidding me to cheer. 
For soon materialized she'll come to me, 
Realized my dreams, contented then I'll be. 



65 



MY IDEAL. 

But this ideal thou'it tell me is in vain, 

'Tis but a vision of the heated brain, 

But thou are v/rong, for here will I define 

The great ideal I seek, for which I pine. 

'Tis but a Vv^oman pure, a snow white flower 

Possessing only this has in her power 

To make my life a heav'n, and in return I'd give 

All in this world, for her alone I'd live. 

One, whom no other man her lips had pressed. 

One, whom no man had held close to his breast. 

For then I'd know that the fond look of love 

Lighting her eyes, bright as the stars above. 

Was mine and mine alone, no other one 

Had shared the priceless love, which I had won. 

I know not if I'll meet her on this earth, 

I sometimes doubt if woman has given her birth. 

Still — though I doubt — sweet hope with me doth 

stay. 
Consoling my lone heart by night and day, 
Oh, come my love, my Ideal come to me ! 
Thou'it find love pure and true av/aiting thee. 



66 



PANAMA. 



(With apologies to the singer of Mandalay.) 



Vm tired of endless avenues, I'm sick of count- 
less streets. 
Where wand'ring round from morn till night a 
friend one never meets. 
The hustle, noise and bustle on my fevered 
senses jar, 
Oh send me where no subways run, nor ele- 
vators are. 
Down in swelt'ring Panama. 
Where the exiled gringos are, 
And temptations are so plentiful 

they make a man or mar. 
Down in dreamy Panama, 
'Neath the equatorial star 
Where, gleaming bright, hangs low at night, 
the Southern Cross afar. 



67 



PANAMA. 

There's a girl Fm mighty fond of, and her skin's 
a dusky hue, 
Yet she knows what's right and proper just 
the same as me or you. 
Though her colour's not admitted into high so- 
ciety, 
Yet she'd shame her whiter sisters with her 

true fidelity. 
With a true fidelity 
She is waiting there for me. 
Looking out upon the bosom, 

of that old Pacific sea ! 
Down in swelt'ring Panama . . . 

When the blood-red sun was dipping down be- 
yond Taboga Bay, 
Along that stand of coral hand in hand we 
used to stray! 
And we'd linger till the shadows of the tropic 
ev'en fell 
A-list'ning to the chiming of that old Cathedral 

bell. 
List'ning to the distant bell, 
And the sucking, surging swell. 
When she'd nestle closer to me 

and her love for me she'd tell. 
Down in swelt'ring Panama .... 



68 



PANAMA. 

Then the stars would start to twinkle m the vel- 
vet dome of night, 
And the silent harbour sparkle in the moon's 
argental light, 
While the inky tropic blackness with the glowing 
worm would team. 
Until I thought I'd sure awake and find it all a 

dream. 
Yes, it surely did but seem, 
Just to be a passing dream. 
With the fireflies and the moonlight 

and the phosphorescent gleam, 
Down in swelt'ring Panama. 

When a month of toil was over kind Pd get my 
hard-earned pay. 
She'd keep just what was needed and the rest 
she'd put away, 
That's the reason I am able to be here a-drink- 
ing 'cham . . .' 
And a-treating sweet-tongued ladies who for 

no one care a damn ! 
Though they never care a damn, 
And their love is all a sham, 
There's one PU bet wdio loves me yet 

for what I really am, 
Down in swelt'rinsf Panama . . . 



69 



PANAMA. 

I have drunk and danced with women till I ache 
in ev'ry bone, 
And having spent nigh ev'ry cent they've left 
me on mine own, 
Yet there's a truer maiden in a fairer land I 
know, 
Who'd stick by me through thick and thin, in 

happiness or woe, 
Earning little years ago, 
When our funds were getting low. 
She'd twine her arms around my neck, 

and set my heart aglow, 
Down in swelt'ring Panama . . . 

Now I've squandered all my savings and I've 
heard some people say. 
That you can't get love on credit round about 
the Great White Way, 
So I'm going back, God grant it, to the sweetest 
girl by far, , 
Who is waiting for my coming 'neath the 

palms of Panama. 
Down in swelt'ring Panama, 
Where the exiled gringos are, 
And all the lot have surely got 

their souls as black as tar, 
Down in sw^elt'ring Panama, 
'Neath that blazing dome afar, 
Where, gleaming bright, 4iangs low at night 
the Southern Cross afar. 
70 



THE CALL OF THE SOUTH. 



From those peaks which pierce the vastness, 

Where the snows commune with silence, 
Where the ceaseless hum of Life has failed to 
reach. 

From the wide majestic uplands 

And the savage godless jungle, 
From the nodding palms which skirt the shelv- 
ing beach, 

Comes a v^^hisper faint and fleeting, 

Quick it sets the pulses beating 
Of those gringos, who have learnt to understand, 

'Tis a something heart elating. 

Like a lover's voice vibrating, 
'Tis a luring call from out the Southern Land. 



71 



THE CALL OF THE SOUTH. 

And it ne'er will brook resistance, 
'Tis of tense, lifelong persistence, 

It has cast o'er us a spell and yield we must. 
To its soul uplifting clamour, 
To its weird enthralling glamour, 

To that feeling strange men call the wanderlust. 
Restless sons of ev'ry nation. 
Long have known its fascination. 

It has drawn them from the farthest ends of 
earth. 
Not the sleek, whom wealth entices, 
Nor the scum exiled for vices, 

But th' ones who strive for fame — the men of 
worth. 

They are sweating in the denseness, 
Of an Ecuadorian forest. 

Where fever's deadly strongholds they assail, 
Tow'ring mountains know their daring. 
You will see their camp-fires flaring 

'Long the windings of a bleak Bolivian trail. 
Having cast all ties behind 'em 
On a Chilian waste you'll find 'em. 

Where the solitude eternal turns you dumb, 
'Tis not selfish greed enslaving. 
But a fierce rebellious cravmg . . . 

'Tis the yearning call of Space which bids you 
come. 

72 



THE CALL OF THE SOUTH. 

It is calling, ever calling, 

Faintly comes the distant echo, 
Of that voice which stirs the blood of those v^ho 
roam. 

For it speaks of morning glory, 

Noonday glare, and sunset's gory, 
Of livid moon, of stars and velvet dome. 

Telling tales of paths untravelled. 

Hidden mysteries unravelled, 
Of sickness dire, uncared for and alone. 

Of graves in unknown places ; 

Whilst they hark with eager faces ; 
The mystic South has claimed them for its own ! 



73 



MY CUBANITA. 



There's a little hut I know of in a verdant cov- 
ered land, 
Where the shores are soft caressed by Caribb 
calm. 
And this little hut is standing on a glittering- 
coral strand 
'Neath the shelter of a spreading cocoa palm. 
The walls are rudely fashioned, for they're made 
of palma leaves, 
The roof admits the tropic sun and rains, 
Through the gaping chinks at midnight passes 
free the cooling breeze. 
Whilst th' ruddy dawn the inmost corner 
stains. 



74 



MY CUBANITA. 

There's a little girl I know of, whose abode's that 
humble shack, 
A ruler absolute, great power she wields, 
Though her skin is rather dusky and her clothing 
somewhat lack. 
Yet in truth and purity to none she yields. 
A rugged coral m.ountain, rising from a still 
lagoon, 
Comprises for this queen a wondrous throne, 
With the sun her mighty sceptre — her diadem 
the moon, 
She reigns o'er stretching land and sea, alone. 

When the blazing sun at dawning launches forth 
his blist'ring rays, 
She bathes her perfect form of dusky hue. 
In the cool laguna waters, where the sportive 
porpoise plays. 
And skimming low, the myriad seabirds mew. 
She glides, devoid of effort, from the sun-kissed 
coral shore. 
To quickly dive to where the white sand 
gleams. 
And, as she graceful rises to the rippled breast 
once more, 
A water-nymph, divinely fair, she seems. 



7^ 



MY CUBANITA. 

When the piping day is over, and the moon 
shines cold above 
And night is fresh in its virginity, 
She twangs her gitarita and she sings those 
songs of love, 
As often she has sung them o'er to me. 
Across the calm laguna comes a seabird"s plain- 
tive cry, 
Full lonely in the absence of its mate. 
Her sweet song ends abrutly, from her lips 
escapes a sigh, 
She too is doomed her love's return to w^ait. 

Till the bellbird echoes midnight, and the phos- 
phor is aglow. 
She lingers, sadly gazing out at sea, 
Towards the far horizon, where the Southern 
Cross hangs low, 
And I know that she is yearning just for me. 
She is yearning for the moment when I'll take 
her in mine arms, 
And kiss away those tears which dim her eyes. 
Then stay, a fellow victim to that land's seduc- 
tive charms, 
A partner in that earthly paradise. 



76 



MY CUBANITA. 

She's my dark-eyed Cubanita, daughter of that 
Island free, 
Whose soil is clothed with waving sugar cane, 
A simple child of Nature, yet a goddess fair to 
see, 
Appointed o'er Arcadia to reign. 
Oh ! lead me to its portals, let me breath its air 
once more, 
Let me taste its joys of life, and fruits of love ! 
With its walls the red horizon, the forest green 
its floor. 
Its gilded roof the stretching dome above. 



77 



THE BUM. 



He drifted in on the tide of sin, 

Deep in the human slime, 
One of the scum, a lozv-down Bum, 

Schooled in the art of crime. 
Nothing in sight hut a drunkard' s grave, 

Shunned by the zvorld, alone, 
Begging his way how e'er he may, 

Down on the Isthmus Zone. 

Yet he'd a tale zvhich he told to me 

Once in a sober spell. 
Reason enough why so rapidly 

He trod on the path to hell. 
Reason, I said, zvhy he downward sped 

With a rush that nought could hold, 
Akvays the same — a woman to blame. 

For this is the tale he told. 



78 



THE BUM. 

Did you hap'd to be on the Isthmus Zone about 

the year '05 
When that strip of land tv/ixt each ocean strand 

was Hke to a bustHng hive, 
When the wondrous scheme of a mighty task 

was wrought without falt'ring hitch, 
And the calloused drove, like demons, strove in 

the depths of that world-famed ditch. 

If you had then you would have heard them 

speak down in Colon Town, 
Of the bright career of an engineer who won 

for himself renown. 
Who, by the strength of his brawn and brain, 

towered far above the rest. 
Till across that Zone he was widely known as a 

sample of Nature's best. 



79 



THE BUM. 

Tall and straight — with eyes that read thoughts 

of the inmost heart. 
Meeting the world with erected head, manfully 

playing his part. 
Picture in thought the man I panit, fresh with 

the blush of youth, 
Now swear it's a lie ! but that man was I, yes, I, 

with this face uncouth. 

Proud was I in those former days, sought by my 

fellow men, 
Feeling the glow which is wrought by praise, 

lauded by speech and pen, 
Winning the smiles of the fairer sex, blessed 

with the love of some. 
Willing to be what I chose, to me, — a worn-out 

no-good Bum. 



80 



THE BUM. 

Unknown to me was the soft caress, the warmth 

of a fluttering breast, 
The wondrous bliss of that long-drawn kiss, the 

joy of the after-rest. 
Pure was I in my thoughts and deeds, steeled in 

the human strife, 
Till the luring shade of a lying jade was thrown 

'cross my path in life. 

Paint what you will ! she was fairer still, fair as 

a tropic dawn. 
Worthy to vie with the blushing sky, as the 

glowing sun's withdrawn. 
Yea ! and her voice with its velvet tones, soothed 

like a soft refrain, 
The liquid trill of her laughter still rings through 

my sodden brain. 



81 



THE BUM. 

Few were the days from the hour we met till she 

was my only thought, 
The substance real of my mind's ideal — all that 

in life I sought. 
On virtue's throne I placed her alone, as only a 

lover can, 
And to her gave all a girl should crave. — the love 

of a clean-cut man. 

When Colon bay, at the close of day, mirrored 

the tints above. 
And the evening breeze, through the palma trees, 

sighed for its morning love, 
Oft we'd sit by that circling beach, washed by the 

Caribb sea. 
How my heart would beat with a rapture sweet, 

as she told of her love for me. 



82 



THE BUM. 

Then the nascent moon, as a cescent, soon would 

rise from her virgin bower, 
And a thousand stars, each a blazing Mars, their 

beams on the night would shower, 
Whilst hand in hand 'long that coral strand, 

where the snow-capped breakers curled. 
We'd wander slow, with our hearts aglow, alone 

in a lovers' world. 

My God ! How I schemed, and worked and 

dreamed of the joy that would soon be mine. 
My only thought was the goal I sought, a Home, 

with its love divine. 
That haven sweet of a perfect peace, aloof from 

the worldly strife. 
Where the radiant morn, of a love new-born, 

would last till the end of life. 



THE BUM. 

'Twas but a week from that longed-for day when 

she would receive my name, 
Would it e'er pass by? All impatient I, the prize 

I had won, to claim. 
And we sat that night from the cro\vd apart, in a 

ballroom's cool retreat, 
'Neath a palma's shade, whilst the banda' played, 

a waltz Strauss, low and sweet. 

One which seems to speak of dreams, the heart's 

lone space to fill, 
Though years have flown and hard I've grown, 

that music haunts me still. 
Back through the years it comes to me, till 

quick my pulses leap, 
Its sweet refrain I hear again in the void of my 

drunken sleep. 



1 Band 



THE BUM. 

We'd sat awhile in a blissful dream, screened 

from the curious glance, 
When another came, from my side to claim my 

love for a promised dance, 
With a whispered word, which alone I heard, 

she rose from our sheltered seat, 
And with true charm, on her partner's arm, was 

borne to the music's beat. 

As they passed from view in the laughing throng 

I sought once again that seat, 
And gazing down on the leaf-strewn ground lay 

a letter, 'twixt my feet. 
Which first surprised, for I realized the script of 

my promised wife. 
Then sent a pain through my whirling brain, like 

the thrust of a keen-edged knife. 



85 



THE BUM. 

For the one addressed was a man I'd known, 

famed as a poisonous weed, 
A useless lot, a drunken sot, worm of the lowest 

breed. 
One who would, if the price was good, barter 

his closest friend, 
Whose life, depraved, oft victims craved would 

meet with a speedy end. 

Have you ever looked on a man condemned, as 

he stands 'neath the gallows tree. 
And for his crime in a moment's time must 

plunge to eternity? 
Have you heard that cry, as he's pinned to die, 

which comes from his anguished soul? 
That shriek which tells of the hell of hells, as he 

drops through the gaping hole ? 



86 



THE BUM. 

If you have then you can imagine me, as I read 

that letter o'er, 
Which plainly showed that my bride-to-be the 

heart of a harpy bore, 
For wrote she not that her love was his whilst 

clearly describing how, 
I'd take the blame of her secret shame with that 

of my m.arriage vow. 

I was the tool, the poor damned fool, she'd use 
as a social shield, 

Doomed to partake for appearance's sake of 
fruits which her sin would yield, 

I, v/ho had learned the truth to seek, the false- 
hood to despise. 

Would pass this life with a faithless wife, steeped 
in the foulest lies. 



87 



THE BUM. 

Crazed with grief from the cursed place into the 

night I fled, 
Need the rest be told? In my haggard face 

you'll read what I've left unsaid. 
With women and liquor, cards ana dice trying to 

numb the pain. 
Till at last I fell to the depths of hell, never to 

rise again. 

That was the tale in a plaintive wail he told to 

my great surprise. 
Whilst to me it seemed that his lost soul gleamed 

out from his bloodshot eyes. 
Then the light did fade from their watery depths, 

his feverish lips were dumb. 
And he stood once more, by Death's dark door, a 

nameless, low-down Bum. 



VALPARAISO BAY. 



When the virgin morn awakens, and its face 
aflame with blushes 
Arises from the fragrant prairie bed, 
Fleeting elfins of the dawning tear aside night's 
darkened awning 
To reveal fair Nature's paintings overhead. 
Soon from mountain, crest and valley, smiling 
vineyard, sullen pampa. 
The last intrepid shadows steal away, 
Or, paling, quick surrender when the sun in won- 
drous splendour 
Climbs o'er those heights of Valparaiso Bay. 



89 



VALPARAISO BAY. 

Soon the city is astirring, from each narrow 
crooked calle" 
Ascends the morning vendor's 'cadent call, 
Bells for early Matins ringing, deep voiced 
fishers gayly singing 
As they homeward row with their abundant 
haul. 
In the sunlit space o'erspreading . . . turned to 
Bedlam by their screaming, 
Large countless flocks of gaviotas play, 
Sweeping downwards . . . upwards twirling . . 

like a shower of snowflakes whirling 
O'er the mirrowed depths of Valparaiso Bay. 



Street 

90 



VALPARAISO BAY. 

In the dazzling glare of noon-day man and beast 
abstain from toiling, 
Hmigry seabirds cease awhile their warfare 
shrill, 
All are silently reposing . . . through a short 
siesta dozing, 
Whilst the breathless land is lying deathly still. 
Nothing stirs from rising cerro^ to the farthest 
off-shore whaler, 
(Old gnarled warrior proved in many a fray), 
Overcome Pacific's rancour . . . swaying peace- 
fully at anchor, 
To the rythmic swell of Valparaiso Bay. 



Noonday sleep 
Hill 



91 



VALPARAISO BAY. 

But the scene attains perfection when the swel- 
t'ring day is closing, 
E're the deeper shades are cast by coming 
night, 
Lofty spires so stately rearing . . . tow'ring hill 
and cliff appearing 
Engulfed in flames beneath the shimmering 
light. 
Whilst the final rayos"^ . . • seeming like a huge 
reflector beaming . . . 
Among the clouds and distant snowpeaks play, 
Then descending, fiercely glowing, send a crim- 
son stream wide flowing 
Across the breast of Valparaiso Bay. 



Rays 

92 



VALPARAISO BAY. 

Grey, the veil of night spreads over, driving from 
the verdant landscape. 
The last lone remnants of the afterglow, 
Glided spires and purple cerros are bedecked 
with ghostly raiment, , 

And, with the passing moments, fainter grow. 
Dim are seen the whitened tombstones marking 
where the exiled children 
Of a mighty Mother Country far away, 
Having made her name undying, in God's loving 
care are lying 
On those heights overlooking Valparaiso Bay. 



9Z 



VALPARAISO BAY. 

Soon the sentinels of darkness glimmer in the 
stretching vastness, 
Clear the city lights, back through the night, 
reply, 
Heaven's canopy is teeming. . . with a million 
starlets gleaming, 
And the Southern Cross, afire, is hung on high. 
Crowds in plazas^ cool are straying, list'ning to 
the handas" playing. 
Departed now the stifling heat of day, 
Whilst the true artistic luna changes to a 
bright laguna 
The calm expanse of Valparaiso Bay. 



° City squares 
6 Bands 



94 



VALPARAISO BAY. 

Through the trackless tropic jungle, on the bleak 
Magellan pampas, 
From plains to where the snow eternal lies, 
In those lands by nature favoured, I have fought 
and loved and laboured, 
With the lowly herded . . . feasted with the 
high. 
But, although I aimless wander. . . free as air 
with nought to bind me, 
There's one lovely spot where gladly I would 
stay. 
And I pray that — ceased my roaming — I may 
pass life's tranquil gloaming 
By the peaceful shores of Valparaiso Bay. 



95 



THE SOUTHLAND. 



A wooer, in love with Creation, 

Adrift from the day of my birth, 
Allegiance I give to no nation, 

The country I claim is the Earth. 
From swamps where the Chagres is flowing. 

Through jungles where fevers. abound. 
To wastes, where bleak blizzards are blowing. 

The mark of my footprint is found. 

Perhaps you have never heard spoken 

The name of the land that I mean. 
The heart of its wilds is unbroken 

The best of its beauties unseen. 
There, mountains sheer upwards are tow'ring, 

To pass in the dimness from sight. 
Whilst jungles, of vastness o'erpow'ring. 

Are clothed in the blackness of night. 



96 



THE SOUTHLAND. 

Each morn is a curtain combining 

All works of God's wonderful loom, 
Rare tints of the rainbow entwining 

With those of a garden in bloom. 
At eVen each mountain peak hoary 

With rivers of gold is aflood, 
As the sun, still arrayed in its glory, 

Sinks down in an ocean of blood. 

Then stars in their myriads teeming. 

Appear on the blackboard of night. 
Fair luna, aroused from her dreaming. 

Bathes earth with a virginal light. 
Dark jungles and forest awaken 

From coma of sweltering day. 
As widely their slumbers are shaken 

By prowling brutes seeking their prey. 



97 



THE SOUTHLAND. 

Pacific is endlessly crooning 

Its chant to the coral-bound strand, 
Nature forever is tuning 

The strings of a wonderful band. 
Each with the other full blending 

Whilst chorus on chorus is piled, 
Till loud to the skies is ascending 

A rapturous song of the Wild. 

That is the land, when you leave it 

You swear 'tis a final good-bye ! 
But somehow you fail to achieve it. 

You cannot, however you try. 
For though it breeds fevers that rot you. 

And ofifers but hardships and pain. 
Yet the Lure of the Tropics has 'got' you. 

You'll return to the Southland again. 



98 



THE GRINGO'S LAMENT. 



Take me away from the city gay, with its end- 
less rush and roar, 
Fair to the eye of the passer-by, cankering at 
its core, 
God ! How I hate these men innate, with manli- 
ness erased. 
Their fitting mates but fashion plates, with the 
human form effaced. 

Take me away from the Great White Way, 
where teeming millions tread. 
Far from the sound of the Underground, and 
the whirl of the Overhead. 
Far from the taint of that clouded view, and nar- 
row mind begat 
By the soulless, spineless, humdrum life of a 
modern up-town flat. 



99 



THE GRINGO'S LAMENT. 

Give me a hut by a coral strand, where the palms 
in clusters grow, 
A tropic night, wtih the stars alight and the 
phosphor gleam aglow, 
The murmur low of the lapping waves, the song 
of the surging swell. 
And bellbirds weird in a neighbouring grove, 
chiming their midnight knell. 

What do I care for the swagger fare of a high- 
toned restaurant, 
Or dinners glum where I listen dumb to a chat- 
tering debutante, 
Tired I am of the taste of 'cham' — and the per- 
fumed fat cigar, 
Of lolling around, like a king uncrowned, in a 
high-priced motorcar. 



100 



THE GRINGO'S LAMENT. 

Send me back o'er a mountain track, from dawn 
till the day is done, 
Where the lone reply to your hunger's cry is 
the bark of a trusty gun. 
Cast me adrift where the sandhills shift to the 
play of a pampa breeze, 
With a thirst to raise, and a trail to blaze, 
and a bronco twixt my knees. 

Ever I yearn for a quick return to that land of 
the sunsets red, 
Where the amber dawn, as a startled fawn, 
leaps from its prairie bed, 
The noonday glare I'll gladly bear, and, when the 
night lies down. 
Held to its breast I'll peaceful rest away from 
New York Town. 



101 



WOMAN. 



A mixture strange of right and wrong, 
Of frowns and laughter, tears and song, 
Of ways which do and don't belong 

To the meek or the worldly wise ; 
Of fear . . . yet brave in facing pain. 
Of humble mien, yet high disdain. 
Of lofty thoughts and sordid gain. 

Of truth and petty lies. 

She'll sink from sight in choking slime, 
Or pass from view to heights sublime. 
Yet, lowly born, will seldom climb 

But stay where she began ; 
With clouded brain and blinded eyes 
From out the dust she fails to rise. 
Ambition lacking, never tries 

To keep abreast with man. 



102 



WOMAN. 

Those lips, which innocently prate, 

And whisper words, which heavens create, 

Can spit forth curses filled with hate. 

Which turn one's marrow cold; 
Those breasts, which God has deigned to 

bless. 
Which bloom beneath a child's caress, 
Can overflow with wantonness. 

The darkest secrets hold. 

Soft hands, which soothe the sick to sleep, 
She in revengeful blood may steep. 
They'll turn to claws as swift she'll leap 

To aid her mate's defence ; 
And in the depths of those bright eyes. 
Where men have oft found paradise. 
The flame of scorn can quick arise 

Or flourish cute pretense. 



103 



WOMAN. 

Though sometimes she by man is bought, 
His money gone . . . her mission wrought, 
She'll cast him off without a thought, 

As she would do her glove ; 
Yea ! though she stoops her soul to sell, 
Yet will her heart in freedom dwell, 
V/ith smiling face she'll go through hell. 

And give her life for love. 

Contempt and worship both she breeds. 

Desire for good and evil feeds. 

And contradicts her words and deeds, 

A thousand different ways ; 
A problem which has ne'er been solved. 
Though Destinies are oft involved. 
She'll stay a mystery unsolved 

Until the end of days. 



104 



THE PET. 



You'll see him o' nights 'neath the spluttering 
lights 

Of a blazoned booze saloon, 
Striking with ease from the ivory keys 

A popular rag-time tune ; 
Shouting the lines of a limerick song, 

One of a sulphurous brand, 
Turning again to the haunting refrain 

Of a waltz, or an opera grand. 

Meeting the curse or badgering terse 

With nought but a shamefaced grin, 
Trying his best, with obnoxious jest, 

A smile from his hearers to win ; 
A branded Bum, the worthy chum 

Of a painted lynx-eyed dame, 
A follower shrewd of that cankerous brood, 

Living on women's shame. 



105 



THE PET. 

You ne'er would think that this low-down *gmk' 

Was the son of an honoured dad, 
The favorite child of a mother mild, 

A 'varsity undergrad; 
Who, through his name, could rightly claim 

Descent from a noble breed. 
And wrested praise, in bye-gone Jays, 

From men of whom we read. , 

Who won the hand of a woman true. 

Chosen 'fore other m.en, 
A model fair of that beauty rare. 

Pictured by artists' pen; 
Who gave him all that a man may ask. 

Purity, Truth and Love, 
To find it used, besmirched and cast 

Aside, like a worn-out glove. 



106 



THE PET. 

And he, who knew the soft caress 

The kiss of a virgin maid, 
Now stoops to tend to the whims and ways 

Of a heartless, soulless jade. 
He, who ate with a millionaire, 

And drank with a belted peer. 
Hired to amuse, all who may choose, 

To call for a ten-cent beer. 

Yet pity him not, he's a drunken sot. 

Dead to the sense of shame ; 
Fallen as low as man can go, 

And only himself to blame. 
Braggart and bully, coward and cur. 

Imp of the blackest jet, 
That's him who's known on the Ithmus zone 

As the Red Light District Pet. 



lo; 



THE EXILED GRINGO. 



To be sung to the tune of The Village Blacksmith 



Under a spreading banyan tree 
The Exiled Gringo sits, 
Around his burning aching head 
A small mosquito flits 
And never for a moment brief 
Its sordid humming quits. 

The gringo's hair is crisp and short, 

His skin a sickly tan, 

His brow is wet with fever's sweat, 

He works whene'er he can. 

And studies each and ev'ry face 

For he trusts not any man. 



108 



THE EXILED GRINGO. 

Week in, week out, from morn 'till night, 

The fever racks his frame. 

The greenhorns, coming out from home 

Are young and tender game. 

Malaria vile, or Yellow Jack 

Their bodies quickly claim. 

He goes on Sunday to the town 

And gets among the boys, 

He watches others drink and bet. 

He hears a harpy's voice, 

Singing in days gone bye. 

If he but had his choice. 

It sounds to him like someone dear 

Singing in days gone bye. 

He wipes, with palsied, shaking hand, 

A tear-drop from his eye. 



109 



THE EXILED GRINGO. 

Working, drinking, borrowing, 
Onward through life he goes, 
Each week-end sees his plata drawn 
Each evening quick it flows, 
Striving always, nothing gained 
Till death his eyelids close. 



1 Money (silver) 

110 



MEMORIES. 



Dear old pal, do you remember when we roamed 
the Southland over 
From blazing Panama down to the Horn? 
On the brink of manhood verging, with the red 
blood through us surging, 
'Long the pathways of adventure were we 
borne. 
Then we knew no days of sorrow, thoughtless 
ever of the morrow, 
We wandered on v/nere fickle fortune led, 
Now our day grows quickly dimmer, and life's 
spark is but a glimmer ; 
Yet, pal of mine, those mem'ries are not dead. 



Ill 



MEMORIES. 

In my fancy we are sweating once again by 
Chagres river, 
Where we pierced the festooned jungle 
through and through, 
Or we're tramping 'cross the moorlands of that 
bleak, storm-swept Magellan, 
Where the blizzards of Antarctic fiercely blew. 
Comes to mind the arid pampa where we treked, 
athirst and weary. 
Beneath the glare of that eternal sun. 
And by Guaya, gently flowing, I can see our 
camp-fires glowing 
As we smoked a fragrant pipe when day w^as 
done. 



112 



MEMORIES. 

Do you ever think, old comrade, of those sun- 
baked dusty cities, 
Of narrowed streets wherein strange odours 
dwell, 
Of plazas cool at ev'ning, when the blaring bands 
were playing. 
And nightly 'jags' when fairly raised we hell. 
Those were times when nothing mattered, joys 
and hardships shared together. 
Thoughts of love, of sweet romance and deadly 
strife. 
Though with Fate we oftimes sported, and grim 
Death by us was courted, 
Yet, comrade mine, we drank the wine of Life ! 



113 



MEMORIES. 

And those strange enchanted islands, with the 
ripened fruit in plenty, 
Where each of us ensnared a dusky queen. 
The hours of fervent rapture, and of dolce far 

Those nights of dazzling stars and silver sheen. 
O'er the surf-drenched reefs of coral where the 
oily swell is surging, 
A scented breeze is straying to and fro, 
And it softly keeps repeating to the combers 
shoreward fleeting, 
Those heart-enthralling tales of long ago. 



^ Sweet idleness 

114 



MEMORIES. 

Now, descending to the valley where deep shad- 
ows are appearing, 
The peaks of youth and strength seem far 
away. 
Still, in my mind's reflection, I can see them 
stately rearing. 
It seems as if we'd scaled them yesterday. 
But our journey's almost ended; soon, when 
Death's dark veil is rended. 
Together we will face the Great High Boss, 
So, 'ere leave of earth is taken, here's to friend- 
ship ne'er forsaken ! 
Adios, my loyal comrade . . . adios. 



115 



THE GRINGO'S HOMECOMING. 



Down in swelt'ring Panama, up in freezing 
Bogota, 
'Long the fevered Spanish Mainland, from the 
Isthmus to Para, 
On an Ecuadorian pampa, in a hot Peruvian 
town. 
From the beach of Valparaiso 'till the stormy 
Horn you round, 
You will find the wand'ring gringo, so he's 
called in West Coast lingo, 
A son of England or the U. S. A., 
Who, from varied circumstances, freedom's will, 
or lack of chances. 
Or from causes best unknown, is 'out' to stay. 



116 



THE GRINGO'S HOMECOMING. 

Born of high or lowly station, board or college 
education, 
Speaking with a Yankee twang or Oxford 
drawl, 
Scotsman, Irish, Londoner — Eastern, Western, 
Southerner, 
Of ev'ry different creed, yet gringos all. 

Strong in youth, in years declining, married, sin- 
gle, concubining, 
Trading, banking, mining, plantmg for his pay. 
In a sultry seaport baking, on a snow-clad 
mountain shaking, 
From the breaking of the dawn 'till close of 
day. 



117 



THE GRINGO'S HOMECOMING. 

Leaving home with great ambitions, in his mind 
the youthful visions 
Of a Promised Land, where milk and honey 
flow. 
Soon he finds that earning money is distinct to 
sucking honey. 
And the milk he drinks is from the cup of woe. 

Years of working to his credit he will find the 
balance debit. 
Not a cent to show for weary hours of sweat, 
While, as each year adds another to his toiling, 
he'll discover 
That instead of saving up he's deep in debt. 



118 



TI-IE GRINGO'S HOMECOMING. 

And his cherished hopes now vanished, he con- 
siders that he's banished, 
He fears to face his old companions' scorn. 
Past advice of others spurning, he is fearful of 
returning 
As a failure to the land where he was born. 

Yet he risks his soul's perdition, boasting of his 
high position. 
To his parents, who believe it, ev'ry word, 
While they tell his friends about it, who ne'er 
think to even doubt it. 
Wondrous stories of that Promised Land 
they've heard. 



119 



THE GRINGO'S HOMECOMING. 

On the years so fleeting roll, while Death's angel 
claims its toll, 
Never will be see his mother's face again. 
What tears of grief he shed, for she passed away, 
he read. 
Calling for that absent wanderer in vain. 

Enters then that homesick yearning, which de- 
cides him on returning. 
To labour in his native land once more. 
Scraping all he has together, and with heart 
light as a feather, 
He watches fade from sight that foreign shore. 



120 



THE GRINGO'S HOMECOMING. 

To his eyes the cliffs of Dover, or the Statue, 
towering over, 
Are by far the dearest, fairest scenes on earth. 
Years of exile left behind him, tears of joy rise 
up to blind him, 
As he gazes on the country of his birth. 

But the faintest tinge of sadness slightly clouds 
his new^-found gladness, 
As the steamer to the crowded dock makes 
fast, 
Not a friend is there to meet him, no bright smil- 
ing face to greet him. 
Not a comrade of the half-forgotten past. 



121 



THE GRINGO'S HOMECOMING 

And he visits former scenes, visions of his many 
dreams, 
In eagerness fond greetings to exchange. 
Though old places are the same, yet no comrade 
speaks his name, 
Each face he sees, quick passing by, is strange. 

Friends, relations, dead or scattered, all the past 
illusions shattered. 
Loneliness with all its terror fills his breast. 
All in life that's worth bereft him, he decides 
with what is left him 
To buy an outbound ticket for the West. 



122 



THE GRINGO'S HOMECOMING. 

No goodbyes, nor fond leavetaking, with his 
heart within nigh breaking, 
He gazes at the fast receding shore. 
No ambitions now to flame him, well he knows 
till Death doth claim him 
He'll be an exiled gringo evermore. 



IZ 



SELECTIONS FROM 
BALLADS OF A GRINGO 



HOMESICK 

When you wake up at dawn with a weight on 
your chest 

And you gaze to the East though your trail it 
lies West, 

When your appetite's gone and you curse with- 
out zest, — 
You're homesick, poor gringo, you're homesick. 



127 



MANANA 

(To-morrow) 

In those little RepuHcs down south of the Zone, 

Where each of an army of Generals can boast, 
Where each waits a pick of the Treasury bone. 

And a President rules for a week at the most. 
From the moment the sun tips the high standing 
palm. 

And the first note is chirped by the earliest bird, 
'Till the hour when the luna reigns silent and 

You hear e'er repeated one spigetti word . . . 
Mariana. 



iWord used to signify anything native. 

128 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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